Pangothean Legends: Chapters 7 and 8

Chapter Seven

The Many Small Problems

         Falroth sat at a round table across from four politely amused faces. There were two other tables in the room where men were loudly engaged in some form of activity. It seemed to involve many small, stiff pieces of parchment. They were often sliding piles of round things back and forth across the tables.

         He couldn’t help but feel guilty. Not for what he did to their companions. He couldn’t be blamed for that. They were the ones who attacked him. No, where he felt convicted was in the extreme ease with which they welcomed him into their midst after he was declared “off-limits”.

         It seemed thin, this “treaty” with Frost. Falroth had never signed a treaty before (he’d never signed anything before, in fact, and it had taken a great deal of coaching by Frost to get him to produce a passable signature) and he wasn’t sure he understood the concept. Why should these men allow a piece of parchment to tell them whether or not someone was their enemy, especially when he was the sole reason for which two of their number lie dead and a third blind?

         Scratching his head, Falroth spoke with uncertainty. “Alright, now if I’m going to learn this ‘card game’ you’re all so keen on playing, first I’ve got to understand what we’re playing for.”

         “I told you,” said a thin, clear-eyed young man named Mersel. “We’re playing for...”

         “These,” interrupted Falroth, as he dipped his hand into a box on the edge of the table. Two of the men at the table flinched and tightened their jaws as he did this. The box was filled with round, flattened pieces of metal. Each had, on one side, a thin slice of lustrous stone fused to the center. “‘Coins, I think you called them.” He rifled through them until he found one where the stone was clear and sparkling. “Diamond?” he said, apprehensively.

         “That’s right,” said Mersel. “They’re for small, trivial things.”

         “Right,” said Falroth, who quickly picked out another coin. This one had grey stone. “Quartz?”

         Mersel nodded. “For more significant, yet still everyday things. Bread, oil... that sort of thing.”

         “And these?” said Falroth, holding up a coin with purple-tinted stone.

         “Amethyst. Those are for large purchases. Property, cattle, carriages... And I’d recommend you put that one back straightaway. There’s only about four of them in there and they’re among the most valuable things on the ship (unless Frost’s being paid in Rubies, which wouldn’t surprise me). Anyway, we can’t afford to lose a single one.”

         Falroth put the Amethyst back. “And what about the Rubies then?” he said, tilting the box and sifting through the ones near the bottom. “You haven’t got any of them in there?”

         Mersel laughed. “I’ve never even seen a Ruby. They’re for wealthy people, like Manders, who own ships and live in estates. As for the Emeralds, I suppose you could probably buy half the harbor with one of those, but I don’t think one’s changed hands in over a century.”

         “Okay, so now I know what they’re called,” said Falroth, with a moan. “Now see, what I don’t understand is, um... how do I put this... er, what in the blazes are they for?”

         Looks of errant shock crossed the faces of the other men. This quickly smoothed into suppressed laughter. “Honestly Falroth!” said Mersel. “I had no idea your native culture was so...” Falroth stared, blankly. “See they’re what’s called currency...” Falroth hardened his expression into a slight scowl. “...or a medium of trade?” Mersel finished, warily.

         “I wasn’t aware trade needed a medium,” said Falroth.

         “Well you can’t just trade goods for goods. A fair and mutual trade in such a manner is hard to come by. For instance, corn for cloth. It doesn’t work.”

         “Why not?”

         “Because corn and cloth have different values. It would be hard to make an even trade. But if you wanted some corn and you had a lot of cloth, you could sell the cloth and buy some corn.”

         “Buy...” Falroth rubbed his aching forehead. “Yes, I heard that word back in the harbor. What does it mean?”

         “That’s what you do with these,” said Mersel, the signs of weariness beginning to seep into his demeanor. “You give them to people who specialize in trade, usually called Merchants, Shopkeepers, or Nobles (for high-end trades), and in exchange they give you whatever goods you need, provided they have it in stock.”

         “And why would someone give me any food or tools for a handful of these useless discs?”

         “Because they can turn around and buy more goods, which they can sell to others for more money.”

         Falroth grunted. “I don’t understand. It all sounds so unnecessarily complicated.”

         “No,” said Mersel. “No. It’s actually very elegant.”

         Leaning back in his chair, Falroth ran both hands through his smooth crimson hair. “Everything elegant I’ve ever known hasn’t lasted long.”

         Mersel perked up. He leaned in and turned his ear toward Falroth. Falroth wasn’t sure what the gesture meant, but the ensuing silence unsettled him. “I had a sister once,” he explained. “The most wonderful little thing, she was. Elegant, you might say.

         “She was always trying to do things. Silly things. Crazy things. Climbing trees, dancing and jumping and whatever else she wanted. A free spirit. And no matter how reckless she was, everything always worked out for her. She was incredibly lucky.

         “She wanted to have adventures. But adventures were not allowed. Not for anyone, especially not for one of the Blessed Bloodline, and absolutely not for a woman.

         “Father was always putting a stop to her antics. It seemed he did nothing for her, other than say no, and it seemed he was the only thing she wasn’t lucky enough to overcome.

         “So, one day, when she was ten years old, she went where he wouldn’t follow. To this day, she’s the only one in our recorded history who ever knowingly and willingly went into the Forbidden Wasteland.

         “We never saw her again.”

         “Hang on,” said Mersel. “Is this the same Forbidden Wasteland that you yourself were banished to?”

         “Well yes. There’s only one Forbidden Wasteland. But I only made it through because I met up with the Sa... er, with Ancelin. I asked him and he said he’d never seen her. I guess she just wasn’t...” Falroth held his breath, astonished at the words about to escape his lips. “...as lucky as me.”

         “But you said the Sand God only told you what direction the harbor was in.”

         “That’s right.”

         “So isn’t it conceivable that she made it through on her own? By chance?”

         “I’d like to think that. I really would. But the Forbidden Wasteland is very large, and shaped like a giant crescent moon, and there are no landmarks. It would be extremely difficult to navigate even with a map.”

         “But it’s possible, wouldn’t you say?”

         “Not with my luck.”

         “But didn’t you say she was extremely lucky? Why does her survival suddenly depend on your luck?”

         Falroth sat dumbfounded. He could hardly let himself believe it was possible. Yet, if the Sand God could be just a boy, then maybe, just maybe, Falroth could hit a lucky streak.

         “Well I don’t believe in luck,” piped in a thicker, gruffer man at the table.

         “You don’t?” said Falroth, not entirely masking the pity in his tone. “Well what do you believe in?”

         The man took one of the coins out of the box and tossed it into the air, catching it with a flourish. “This!” he said. “Almighty Coin!”

         “A good name for a god,” said Falroth, with an approving nod.

         “Eh?” grunted the man.

         “It isn’t a god,” explained Mersel. “It just means, well, money makes the world go round.”

         “What does that mean?” said Falroth.

         “Some folks liken the world’s workings to a wheel. An unending, aimless circle. The Almighty Coin keeps the wheel turning, making the ‘world go round’.”

         “And nobody’s ever thought of putting the cycle to an end and seeing if anything less ‘aimless’ pops up in its place?”

         “No, ‘cause then we’d have anarchy. No cycle means no order at all, and everything’s up for grabs.”

         “In the Sand we got along just fine without it.”

         Mersel shook his head. “That’s because you had a strong sense of interdependency and honor. We don’t have that here. Without a monetary system this country would tear itself apart. It is a necessary evil.”

          “Fine. I just have one more question.” Falroth took a random coin out of the box and flipped it over. “Who is this fella?” The back of the coin had an indentation depicting a tall man dressed in lavish furs. He had a feather in his cap, a weapon in his hand (much like the axes, but longer and curved), and a bulging sack slung over his shoulder. 

         “Argil Underbrush,” said Mersel. “As the story goes, he came here from the Veiled Reaches some eight hundred years ago. He is said to have conquered the Wild on a quest for fortune.

         “One day, in the darkest depths of the jungle, he met a purple-cloaked Wizard named Eamon. Eamon promised him a sack of gleaming emeralds if he would bring back his Enchanted Sword, which had been stolen by the giant Moglug. So Argil agreed, and killed the giant (and there is a very long story with a lot of fanciful details about how he managed it). He recovered the sword and, as he was wise and knew never to trust the word of a wizard, he used the sword to slay Eamon and steal the treasure.

         “He then returned home, with the sword and the bag of emeralds, and using only a fraction of his newfound wealth he funded an expedition to return to these islands and found a new country. But Argil did not join the colonists. No one knows the destination of the Last Voyage of Argil Underbrush, though many are the legends that suggest the location of Argil’s Secret Trove.”

         “Uh huh,” uttered Falroth, scrunching up his forehead. “Well there are several things about that story you’re going to have to explain to me later, but for now I’ll settle for what’s a wizard and why can’t one be trusted?”

         “A wizard is a being that is learned in the subtle art of magic, a dark and mysterious power. They are shrewd and cunning creatures and are not to be dealt with lightly.”

         “Well then Eamon doesn’t sound like a very good one if he let Argil kill him with his own ‘sword’. And if he was so powerful, why didn’t he kill the giant himself instead of going through the trouble of asking Argil to do it?”

         “You’re not the first to pose that question, Falroth. Many are satisfied in the knowledge that it is often a wizard’s delight to manipulate mortals into doing his bidding, but there are those who insist there must be more to the story. Some have suggested that the sword may have been the source of Eamon’s power, and that Argil guessed this, and that’s why he knew he could defeat the wizard as long as he did not possess it.”

         “Well the whole affair sounds highly fishy to me.”

         “You’re entitled to that opinion. But bear in mind that to question it is to attack the story we tell to our children to get them to go to sleep at night.”

         “And really I don’t see what’s to be so proud of,” continued Falroth. “I mean all it really means is that your whole damn country’s here because some nut wanted more money.”

         “It’s not so bad a thing to want, Falroth. What do you think we’re all here for, anyway?”

         Falroth’s eyes popped wide open. “You mean you... all of you... are here for...” He grabbed a handful of coins. “For these?!?”

         “What? Did you think we all came along for the sheer thrill of it? Blimey, it’s practically a suicide mission! Manders is in way over his head.”

         “If it’s going to get you killed, why’d you agree to it?”

         “No man in his right mind would agree to this mission if he had a choice. Most of us would be going hungry as we speak if it wasn’t for this job.”

         Aghast, Falroth leaned back and took a fresh look at the men that sat before him. No wonder they were all so damned skinny!

         “What’s to keep you all from taking the money and making a break for it?”

         “We’ve only been given the first half of the payment. We get the rest when we finish the job. Strictly speaking, we get paid by the day, but the job’s supposed to last sixteen days and we’ve been paid for eight (although I think Manders secretly knows the job will finish sooner). He probably handpicked people he knew had families that couldn’t get by without both halves of the payment. Nobles are almost as untrustworthy as wizards, you know. I think he even planned it out so most of his crew would be dead by the end of the job and he wouldn’t have to pay them, although if he’s not careful I think he’ll be counting his own name in with the rest of the casualties.

         “On top of it all, there’s no way Frost would let us split without seeing it through.”

         “Frost? Is she not in it for the money herself?”

         “Well on the face of it, I’d have to say she is. But she’s a mercenary, and I don’t think you get to where she’s at in that business without taking a little pride in your work. She seems to enjoy it, anyway. She’s the best of the best, you know. At least, she’s the only world famous mercenary I’ve ever heard of.”

         “Mercenaries don’t get famous, Mersel. We get infamous.”

         Frost was standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, flanked by Manders and Alper.

         “Change of plans, my good doppelganger,” she said, looking at Falroth. “Oh don’t worry. You’ll get to play cards soon enough. Only you’ll be playing with us now. The rest of you may go... oh wait, Mersel. You may as well stick around. We could use a fifth player."

Chapter Eight

The Game

         



“Oh, bother,” blurted Manders. Some of the men were counting out their Spatter Chips to change them back into cash. They were taking their sweet time about it at that. “Just pocket the chips and be on your way! We’ll look after your money for now and see that it is all properly redistributed.”

         Frost stuffed the box of their money into the corner of the room and took a moment to relish the looks of anxiety with which they stared at her. “What are you all still doing here?” she barked, and the room soon emptied.

         “So listen...” said Falroth, with kind of a sheepish shrug of his large, muscular shoulders. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to play.”

         “Oh nonsense, you’re playing,” said Frost, matter-of-factly.

         “Well I don’t think I can,” said Falroth. “I haven’t got any of those little... er, any coins.”

         “That’s alright, we’ll loan you some. Pay it back if you can. Otherwise, don’t sweat it. What shall we start him off with, Randall, fifty Amethyst?”

         Manders cleared his throat, loudly. “I’d be more comfortable if you could put up some kind of collateral,” he said to Falroth, in the tone of a businessman. Frost shot him a sneer. Fifty Amethyst was chump-change to a Noble. “How about those sandals?” he asked.

         “My sandals?” said Falroth, looking at his thick, black-as-coal sandals with forlorn eyes. “They’re Calamyst. Irreplaceable.”

         “Fifty Amethyst for a pair of fire-proof sandals is more then generous (I can’t imagine how I would sell them anyway).”

         “Oh look!” exclaimed Frost, a moment before digging in her back pocket. “Seems I’ve got a dusty old Ruby just here.” She pulled out a Ruby coin and blew on it, as it was quite literally dusty. She flicked it in Falroth’s direction. He caught it and stared at it as though it were some peculiar mystery. “What are the relative values, currently?” She looked to Manders, smirking. “Last I heard was one hundred and sixty-seven Amethyst to a Ruby. That ought to start you out right, Falroth. You won’t even be short-stacked.”

         Falroth sat down and placed the Ruby on the table in front of him. “Okay...” he muttered.

         “So I’ll assume you don’t know the first thing about Spatter?” said Frost, with little hope she was wrong.

         “Not a thing.”

         “Wonderful...”

         Thus began the long and arduous task of teaching Falroth to play cards. Although he had to have every tiny concept spelled out to him at length, it turned out to be far less frustrating than expected. It was rather like explaining the mechanics of rainfall or photosynthesis to a particularly bright (and primally attractive) six-year-old.

         Falroth scratched his head as he closely examined one of the large, clay Spatter Chips. “So we’re playing for ‘money’,” the word still felt foreign on his lips, it seemed, “but these ‘chips’ are what we actually play with, and they’re not money, but they represent money?”

         Frost nodded.

         “Then why don’t we just play with the money?”

         “For crying out loud,” said Manders. “Because of the fun colors. What does it matter?”

         Frost raised an eyebrow. The grey, brown, tan, and ebony chips struck her as far less fun than the brightly colored coins.

         “This response is not surprising,” commented Alper. “In Falroth’s village, I imagine almost nothing was done without necessity. In fact, it is likely that the closest thing to a game he has experienced was more of a rite of passage.”

         Falroth’s suddenly tight expression told Frost the dorf was more than half right.

         “Just trying to understand,” Falroth said, lamely.

         Manders’ next outburst occurred a few minutes later when, at his insistence, a hand was dealt. This was quickly shown to be pre-mature because Falroth instantly turned over his cards for all to see.

         “No! No, you buffoon!” Manders exploded, looking far too unhinged for someone wearing a burgundy velvet suit buttoned all the way up. “You’re supposed to keep your cards secret from the other players.”

         Comprehension dawned on Falroth’s face. “That explains a lot.”

         After a re-deal, Falroth called a sizable bet from Manders (“So I just push all these chips into the middle and I can’t have them back unless I’ve got better cards?”). He exposed his cards with a confident look on his face.

         “And... you’ve got nothing,” said Manders, wearily. “I win.”

         “Oh, but I’ve got a fifteen,” said Falroth, tapping the card with the large ‘XV’ framed in stars. “That’s the highest one, isn’t it? And I’ve got a fourteen, too.”

         “Yes, and that might’ve been good if the Power Card had been a thirteen or up, but in this case, because the Power Card...” He indicated the IV of Diamonds that had been face-up in the center of the table. “...is a four, your six is actually your best card, since it’s much closer to four than the others. But I’ve got another four in my hand, which means I’ve struck the money (with a two for a Kicker). That also beats Frost’s closely coupled pair (am I right?), hence her folding.”

         “Wait, so the goal is to get cards that are close to the middle card? Not to get high ones?”

         “More or less.”

         “So I’ve got to put chips out there before I even see the Power Card? Before I have a clue if my hand’s any good?”

         “It’s a game of probabilities, Falroth. Of risk.”

         Falroth turned to Frost and mouthed the words “this is nuts”. She nodded minutely.

         After a few more hands Falroth did seem, finally, to understand the basic flow of the game, and they were able to start to play in earnest.

         An extraordinarily useful game Spatter was. One could run quite the gamut of emotions in a short span of time. Few activities equaled its instructiveness in sizing up a target.

         It was, of course, utter absurdity to play for any reason other than to gain information. Although there was a certain rudimentary satisfaction in openly outsmarting a room full of people, such things got dull quickly

         But it did complicate matters when the subject was barely interested in the money he already had, let alone in acquiring more. Once he realized he didn’t have to call every bet, Falroth began folding almost constantly. He spent most of the duration of the game looking around the room at various commonplace objects. It was impossible to tell which of them surprised him and which of them seemed normal. All the while his eye color stayed locked on a dull red.

         “That’s it, I need a drink,” announced Manders, as he loudly rose from his seat. He took out a skeleton key and unlocked a chest on top of a cabinet. He pulled out a squarish glass bottle with a thin, conical neck. He carefully poured a clear liquid into a tiny bowl-shaped glass. The stuff was almost invisible, but pin-points of light flickered all throughout the cup as though it were full of swishing glitter rather than drink. “The latest brew from Mariel Isle. Would you like some? Frost? Alper? Mersel? Fal...” Manders hesitated. Out the corner of his eye he had apparently caught Frost’s subtle gesture of halt. “Perhaps not,” he said to Falroth, as he poured three more glasses. “You haven’t a bit of resistance, and this is the strongest Philocack in the world.” He served Frost and the others their portions and sat back down. “You need your wits about you.”

         Falroth’s thick, black eyebrows were pressed together in a look of bewilderment.

         Manders and Alper both bent their necks far backward and tilted their glasses to allow a few drops to trickle down their throats. They each let out a deep sigh and instantly there was a vacant look in their wide-open eyes. A few seconds later they blinked, and now their eyes turned calm and pensive.

         Meanwhile, Frost sipped unceremoniously from her own glass, and Mersel just stared nervously at his.

         As the game pressed on, Falroth’s demeanor slowly changed. Wrinkles kept appearing on his wide forehead for a split second at a time, and the rest of his face was twisting into all sorts of wacky arrangements (wacky to Frost anyway, but probably the sort of thing that would go virtually unnoticed to the average person). At length, after a short streak of won pots, he finally seemed to draw up the courage to speak his mind.

         “So Frost...” he started.

         Frost nearly choked on her Philocack. Falroth thankfully hadn’t been keen on small talk. What was he about to ask her?

         “Yes?”

         “That’s not your real name, is it?”

         Frost scoffed. “It’s just as much a lie as my given name. The truest expression of identity I can offer you is that I am heiress to the storm inside our hearts.”

         “Fair enough,” said Falroth. “And are you in it for the money?”

         Ah, that’s what was really on his mind. Definitely not small talk.

         “What else would I be in it for?” she said, quickly.

         “And you?” said Falroth, looking at Manders.

         “Me? Oh yes. Of course. I mean, there’s certainly a fair bit of financial gain to be had through the whole venture, obviously, or I wouldn’t be wasting my time with it.”

         A curiously ineloquent answer. It had always been unclear exactly how Manders hoped to profit from the mission, but that wasn’t Frost’s concern. She had a contract. Reasons and motives made no difference to her as long as the end-game didn’t change.

         “Oh yes...” said Falroth. “And what exactly is it? The mission, I mean. Where are we going?”

         “Well that’s...” started Manders, but Frost cut him off.

         “Telmas,” she said. “The Dorfish port.”

         Manders stared at her incredulously. “You think it wise?” he said. “To divulge certain...”

         “He’s going to find out eventually,” she said. “I for one would like to know how he feels about the whole thing. Wouldn’t you?” He seemed to understand, giving a reluctant nod. “We’re going to infiltrate the port and hold the Dorfish Organizational Committee of Telmas hostage until we can elicit their co-operation.”

         “Co-operation?” said Falroth. “What do you mean?”

         “Well Falroth, there are certain details we can’t let you in on just yet. Not even Mersel has been told.”

         “Is that why Mersel and the others think the mission will fail? Because you know something they don’t?”

         “That’s just about the most intelligent thing I’ve heard you say all day, Falroth. Yes. See, our small force is easily sufficient to slip past the perimeter guard, enter the port, and capture it by putting pressure on the Committee. Their Dorfish defenses are paltry and easily penetrable, especially with the information Alper has provided us. The reason the others think we’ll fail is not because of the dorfs themselves, but because of their allies. In contrast to the dorfs, Goldale is strong, and everyone who has ever seriously looked into it knows that you can mess with the dorfs, but the minute Goldale gets wind of it they will crush you. The problem is not capturing Telmas; it’s holding it. But what the others haven’t been told, and I think now I feel safe enough to say, is that by the time Goldale does find out what we’re doing they’ll be in no fit state to respond.”

         “And how long do you suspect before the Committee agrees to help you?”

         “Ah,” said Manders. “Well my sources tell me..” he gave a nod to Alper, “that decision will not come quickly. They may hold out up to three weeks. But that’s where Frost comes in. It’s her job to see that every day the Committee delays is more unpleasant and costly than the last.”

         “Which, now that I think about it, makes it seem strange that I am being paid by the day,” said Frost. “It seems more reasonable that I should...”

         “A deal’s a deal!” snapped Manders, pointing at her.

         “Relax,” said Frost. “We’ve got a Contract. My hands are tied. Have some more Philocack why don’t you.”

         “So you’re all going to harass a handful of dorfs for several days, and all for a load of those silly round things?” said Falroth.

         “That’s about the size of it,” said Manders.

         “Huh...” said Falroth, and seemed lost in thought.

         At this point Falroth’s attention-span seemed to be waning. Frost made an extra effort to get the game moving as quickly as possible. It wouldn’t do to have to quit before learning anything of consequence.

         Soon there came a hand where Falroth had started out with what was a huge bet for him. Frost called, plus all three of the others, and the Power Card was rolled over. It was the VII of Wine. Then Manders laid out an enormous bet. Frost folded, her hand was worthless, and so did Mersel. Alper called, and then it was up to Falroth. He sat there for quite some time, glancing back and forth between his cards and the stack of money in the pot (his eyes, annoyingly, still dark red). At length, he spoke. “I had a decent hand, but as usual that Power Card killed it.” Pushing his cards away, he accidentally upturned two of them. Manders tilted his head curiously and reached out to flip the last one over.

         “By Argil!” he exclaimed. “Falroth, you churl!”

         Falroth had been holding the XII, XIII, and XIV of Wine.

         “What? I know it’s a Straight, but it’s so far from the Power Card, and it can’t possibly beat your hand. What’ve you got, Triplets? An Integrated Straight?”

         “It’s not what I’ve got. It’s what you’ve got. That’s not a Straight. It’s a Straight Flush!”

         “Oh. That it is. My mistake.”

         Falroth started sliding the pot his way, but Manders brought his palm down on his hands. “No, you idiot! It’s too late. Damn it, you were sitting on one of the sweetest hands in the game and you didn’t even know it. You bloody threw it away!”

         “Who gives a damn!” shouted Falroth, rising from his chair and flinging some of his chips across the table. He clenched his fists and teeth. “I could care less about your stupid game, and your cards, and your fun colors, and your accursed little metal discs. It’s all rubbish!”

         Frost stood up smoothly. “Well why didn’t you say so? If you don’t want to play, you don’t have to play.” She strode across the room, put her hand on his shoulder, and showed him to the door. “You were about dead even, so here.” She placed a coin in his pocket and patted it twice. “You were actually eight Qwartz up, but seeing as they’re rubbish, I doubt you care. Ah, I almost forgot.” She went to the corner of the room and picked up the box that contained the workers’ money. “See that this is returned to your friends.”

         Falroth took the box and left, slamming the door behind him.

         Frost turned to the others, the corner of her mouth lifted into an asymmetrical smile. “You saw it didn’t you?” she said. Alper and Manders nodded. “Anger.”

         “What about anger?” asked Mersel. “What’s this all about?”

         “Do try to pay attention, Mersel,” said Frost. “We’re going to need your assistance when it’s time to do the deed. He trusts you, after all.” She took a seat. “Now I have good news, and I have bad news. The good news is that, because Falroth’s Key is anger, we can poison him quite easily. The appropriate substance is in the room with us, in fact.”

         “Philocack?” said Manders. “You didn’t let me give him any!”

         “And it’s a good thing, too. If I had allowed it, we never would have found out his Key and we’d be back where we started. Philocack dulls the emotions by stimulation the intellect. He wouldn’t have been able to feel anger, which is why it will work so well as a poison. I mean how did you feel the first time you had it, when your mind went wild and you thought you could hold the entire world inside your head?”

         “I don’t know. Euphoria, I guess.”

         “Exactly. Just about the furthest thing there is from anger. It will render him harmless. We’ll need to maintain him on a strict regiment of the stuff, of course, which brings us to the bad news: no more binging.” Frost snatched Manders’ half-full glass right off the table in front of him. “We’re going to need quite a lot of the stuff to keep him at bay for the duration of the mission. Probably everything we’ve got on board and we may even need to find more when we get to Telmas.”

         Manders gave an intense frown. “I thought the plan was to kill him?” he said.

         “That was before we knew we could neutralize him without killing him. I’ll do what is necessary, as always, but I try to avoid excessive bloodshed.”

         “At the cost of about eight Rubies worth of Philocack...”

         “Oh, I see. So you’re weighing the value of his life versus the cost of a load of Philosophy in a Bottle. I bet he’d find that rather amusing, especially after his ‘it’s all rubbish’ tantrum.”

         “What is it with you and him, anyway?”

         Frost froze, dumbstruck. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

         “Don’t play dumb. You gave him a Ruby.”

         “I was trying to out-do you! Moneygrubbing little... alright so what of it? What’s a Ruby here and there among alter-egos?”

         “It’s not just that. You seem quite... taken, with him.”

         “Now what the hell are you talking about? I didn’t wink at him, I didn’t compliment his physique, I didn’t giggle, I didn’t bat my eyes, I didn’t do anything!”

         “But you treat him differently. You seemed, sort of...”

         “Tolerant?” offered Alper.

         “Yes, that’s it,” said Manders. “You tolerate him. I’ve never seen you tolerate anyone like that.”

         Mersel chimed in, “Well, and you held his hand.”

         “That’s because I was trying to kill him!”

         “That’s not what it looked like,” said Mersel. “It seemed like you were enjoying it. People have been talking...”

         “What? You mean everyone thinks I’ve got a crush on the cute red-head? Please. I’m not some misty-eyed school girl. God, I hate this little girl’s body sometimes. I know there’s no room for romance in this life. And everyone seems to have forgotten that I’m about to royally screw over the boy I’ve supposedly gone head-over-heels for!”