Torian

The Traveler? My jaw sagged. What did that mean? Was Ranolt referring to our journey that he’d already flagged because we weren’t village residents? But if that were the case, Zal would be a Traveler, too, and Ranolt had implicitly excluded him from the label with that last statement.

Zal’s brows were drawn together, his lips downturned, worry evident in his dark eye, so I shunted the questions to temporary storage to review later and smiled tentatively at Ranolt.

“I don’t need so many shoes. One pair that’s closer to fitting will do.”

“Nonsense,” Ranolt said. “You don’t want to be wearing winter boots in the summer, nor traveling boots in town. Wear the proper boots at the proper time, in the proper place, and all will last longer. Now these…” He held up a knee-high pair in brown leather.

My vision automatically recalibrated. Upper thickness: 3.8mm. Sole thickness: 6.4mm. Hide type: Bovine equivalent. Surface treatment: Plant-based oil. They looked sturdy, yet supple. I curled my fingers against the urge to stroke them, to add their feel to the data.

“Inside is lined and padded, so they’ll do you on your journeys,” Ranolt continued. He reached into a basket on the shelf by his elbow and pulled out a ball of knitted wool that he unrolled to reveal a pair of striped socks, at least as tall as the boots. “Slip into these and we’ll see how they fit, hmmm?”

I did as I was told. If I were to be honest with myself, anything would be preferable to continuing to wear the old boots. Some days, just looking at them sent me back to that moment at the campfire when the apprentices from Corvel-on-Byrne had appeared out of the trees and I’d discovered the truth.

That I couldn’t say no.

Not with any certainty. If Zal hadn’t returned at that moment, I might have been hustled back to the village—assuming we even got that far—and into sex work at their Comfort House, providing the only services for which I had any real or extensive experience.

But now, despite the uncertainty of what we would face in the capital, I wanted nothing to do with my old life. Perhaps this new one would be hard, existing without the convenience of the Lab’s advanced technology, but at least it would be one of my choosing. The longer I spent with Zal, the more I was coming to embrace the planetary inhabitants’ fundamental belief in the sanctity of choice.

Yes, the sooner I could shed everything related to that night, the happier I would be. Another step forward, another step away from my existence as an oddity, an experiment, an inconvenient reminder of a drastic miscalculation.

Another step toward choosing.

I shivered as Ranolt slipped one boot on my left foot. Because choosing had turned me into a killer, too.

I didn’t regret Edric’s death at my hand. He would have murdered Zal had I not acted, would have destroyed the planet and everyone on it. But when I made that choice, I hadn’t expected to survive.

If I were to be honest with myself again, I had moments of anger at Zal for bringing me back where I had no alternative but to face the consequences. To live with the memories. To shoulder the guilt.

Ranolt muttered to himself as he laced up the boots. Once he’d tied both securely, he said, “If you could stand, please, Traveler.”

There was that term again. What did it mean? From the way Zal’s forehead creased, he didn’t know any more than I did.

Ranolt felt the way the left boot fit snug around my ankle and my calf, pressed down at the tip to judge where my toes lay. “How does it feel?”

I wiggled my toes and lifted my heel. “Perhaps a bit wide in the heel?”

He hmmmphed. “Can’t have that. Blisters.” He grasped my heel with a surprisingly strong grip. “I’ve the way of it. Let’s try the rest.”

We went through the same process with the right boot, and, despite my protests, with the other knee-high pair, its uppers thinner than the first, its soles not as heavy, and with the ankle-high pair as well.

“These’ll be ready in a candlemark or so.”

Candlemark.

I inhaled sharply, causing Zal to step forward and Ranolt to look up.

“Is aught amiss?” Ranolt asked. “I fear I can’t have them done any sooner.”

“No. No, that’s fine.”

The problem wasn’t with the boots. The problem was with me. My retrieval protocols should have returned the definition of candlemark in a nanosecond. But it had not. I tried again, framing the query completely:

Linguistic equivalency; local jargon=candlemark; Return result.

But still nothing. My breathing sped up enough that Zal stepped forward again, concern in his dark eye.

“Torian? What’s the matter?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t, of course. If my search protocols on something so simple had failed, what did that mean about the rest of my programming? Could I depend on it? Had I damaged a circuit when I’d removed my tracking device with rough frontier surgery using Zal’s belt knife? I had no scar on my neck—my repair subroutines had healed the gash without a trace. But if I’d somehow disrupted an internal circuit… If the tracker had a failsafe, something that could cascade through my systems and compromise other code, there was nothing I could do. Not out here, not without the Lab’s diagnostic tools.

Yes, I could run my own system diagnostic, but I’d need to go offline to do it. And even that would only tell me something was wrong, not exactly what it was, and not how to fix it.

And I already knew something was wrong, didn’t I?

In an attempt to reassure Zal, I smiled at him. Judging from his deepening frown, however, I failed spectacularly.

“Now, about payment…” Ranolt said.

Zal unslung his pack. “I’ve some stones to trade.” He unlaced the flap and pulled out a roll of leather tied with a thong. A shout outside in the street made him flinch, though, and he fumbled it, loosening the thong when it caught on one finger. The leather unrolled partially, and a scatter of bright amber shards pinged onto the floor.

“Shite,” Zal muttered, and knelt to gather them into his palm.

Ranolt, meanwhile, was staring at the chrysocite chips with wide eyes. “Are those… Can it be…” He raised his chin and glared at Zal. “What have you done?”

Zal blinked at Ranolt’s fierce tone. “Naught but my duty, I assure you.”

Ranolt jabbed a finger at the chrysocite in Zal’s hand. “Does the mage still live?”

Zal grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck under his braids with his free hand. “That’s as may be.”

Ranolt folded his arms. “I don’t trade in stolen goods, nor in those gained by blood.”

Understanding dawned on Zal’s face. “Ah. I see. These are the remains of my own Sun Stone, one I carried for nearly fifteen years. However, it met with an accident and shattered, as you see. Therefore, the man to whom it belonged lives”—he spread his arms—“but does the mage?”

“Ah. I see.” Ranolt’s attitude softened, a flicker of pity in his faded brown eyes. “Well then. I can’t deny that bit of Sun Stone would pay for these boots and more. Nothing is better for working with the hides, for it’s sharper than the sharpest blade and never dulls. But if it does not truly belong to you, you will not be able to give it away.”

I raised my eyebrows. Was that true? The Infomancers claimed they’d instantiated the solar manipulation aptitude into the genetic makeup of the J-4 strain, the race the inhabitants called Sun-born. But I didn’t recall them mentioning that chrysocite could be keyed to a specific person, enough that it couldn’t be stolen.

Tentatively, I sent another request down the query pathway.

Chrysocite; attributes; security features; Return array.

When I got an immediate response—Investiture ceremony establishes secure link between manipulator and solar interface; single use, no transfer; ensures no manipulator may be eliminated for their interface—I heaved a shaky sigh.

So. I wasn’t completely broken, but unreliability was nearly as bad. I redirected the issue to temporary storage. I’d worry about it later.

Zal flattened his big palm and teased the shards into a single layer with one fingertip. “Tell me which three you wish.”

“Three? Nay, one will do.”

“Nevertheless, I choose to give you three for your good work and your care for Torian.”

Ranolt gazed at Zal’s face for a moment, and then studied the mineral splinters, his hands clasped behind his back as though he feared to touch them. Then he pointed, his finger hovering above each choice. “This one. And this. And this.” He glanced up at Zal again. “If you are sure?”

“I am.” Zal pinched the first shard between thumb and forefinger and held it out. “Here. Please take it. I swear to you that it is mine to give.”

Ranolt hesitated for a moment, then allowed Zal to drop it into his palm. The little chip bloomed with light for a moment and subsided, although it still shone in the pale light filtering in through the irregular glass of the window.

“Ah,” he said. “Then it is well.” He let Zal transfer the other chips to his palm and tilted his head to one side. “I will include a pair of soft slippers as well.”

Zal’s eye widened. “I didn’t—”

“Pish. Everyone deserves a pair of slippers.” He smiled slyly. “Even you.” He closed his fist over his prizes and flapped his other hand. “Now, shoo. Come back in a candlemark. And if you’re seeking new clothing? Go to my cousin’s stall. Annice, her name is. It’s in the northeast rank, on the side nearest the smithy, third from the end. She’ll give you good value for your Sun Stone bits.” He winked. “Double perhaps, because it’ll give her boasting rights over her friends.”

As much as I hated to do it, I put my old boots back on. Ranolt had already turned away with more of that sotto voce mumbling, seemingly dismissing us. I stood and followed Zal out the door and onto the plank walkway that lined the muddy street.

Traffic had picked up now that the sun was fully up. People led large, heavy-hoofed dray animals that resembled a cross between old Terran Clydesdales and water buffalos down the middle of the street, churning up even more mud and trailing the inevitable droppings. Others guided laden barrows along, their rag-wrapped wooden wheels picking up more mud and, from the curses of their owners, making them harder to push.

People called to one another or shouted commands to their beasts. Mud schlurped beneath hooves and wheels and boots. Footsteps—our own and those of others who hurried past us—rang hollow on the walkway.

I wasn’t used to the chaos and the noise, and every new sound made me flinch. The lab had always been quiet except for the hum of machinery, or the murmur of low conversation, or the coded chatter of the AIs, something I’d barely registered after the Infomancers had installed the module that let me decode the AI data stream without a translation interface.

Once traveling with Zal, I’d gotten used to the softer silence of the outdoors. I wished fervently that we were back on the trail.

“Are you all right?” Zal asked. “You look a bit spooked.”

I shrugged, but then winced when someone whistled loudly from the street right next to us. “It’s bigger than I’m used to. More people. More noise.”

“Big? This is naught but a speck. If you think this is big, you’re going to hate the capital. It’s bigger. Noisier, too.”

I wrinkled my nose as a dray animal dropped an odiferous load not a meter away. “Smellier?”

“Some parts.” Zal pursed his lips. “Most parts.” He chuckled. “Who am I fooling? All parts.”

“Lovely,” I said faintly.

On the opposite side of the street, the droning chant of many voices emanated from a building that stood apart, nearly three times the size of its nearest neighbor.

“What’s happening over there?” I asked.

Zal followed the direction of my gaze. “Earth temple. Priests leading morning prayers.” He chuckled again. “Although on market day, they’re probably only leading each other. Their flock is either on the way to shop or already there, preparing to sell.” He stopped at a cross street, holding my elbow until a barrow nearly overflowing with smooth gray rocks trundled by, pushed by a grunting youth with black braids gathered in a top knot who didn’t look nearly strong enough to move the load.

After they’d passed, Zal helped me down off the walkway—which was elevated a good two feet above the ground—and into the soupy mud of the street.

We picked our way across, and for a moment, I was glad I had on the old boots. Ranolt’s handiwork would be the first new shoes I’d ever possessed. The first shoes, actually, since in the Lab, I’d only ever worn disposable synthetic booties. New boots. The notion was unexpectedly thrilling, and I had no desire to cake them with mud… et cetera.

After we reached the other side of the street, Zal didn’t mount the walkway in front of the Earth temple. Instead, he led me beside it along a narrow alley that opened onto a square populated with canvas-topped stalls.

The paths between them weren’t churned-up muck like the streets, but neither were they raised walkways. Instead, wooden planks lay directly on the ground. I was glad not to sink up to my ankles again, but in truth, there was nearly as much mud on top of the planks as underneath.

“Zal, may I ask you something?”

He glanced down at me from where he’d been scanning the square. “Of course.”

“What did the Moon-born do?”

He blinked down at me, his steps slowing to a stop, much to the irritation of the people behind us who were forced to go around. “Don’t you know?”

“I was raised in the Lab, among the—” I winced, and glanced around to see if anybody was close enough to hear. Regardless, I probably shouldn’t mention the Infomancers, particularly as Star-born. “Among the others. How would I know anything about their lives?”

Zal gestured to my middle. “But you have the… the stores. All of their records. Can’t you check?”

I inhaled shakily. True, I could check. I’d researched some of the events around the Lunaria virus in the past, after all, but I’d never probed any farther. Had the Infomancers bred curiosity out of me, out of my kind? Zal had told me that the besetting sin of Sun-born mages was insatiable curiosity. If the Originators could code for that, surely they could code for its inverse.

But I had been curious. I was curious. Furthermore, I’d been delighted to add to my data stores from the new experiences of my journey with Zal. The true answer, I suspected, was that I had probably feared I wouldn’t like what I found about my… my kind. And now?

Now I was afraid to look for fear I wouldn’t be able to retrieve the data at all.

“I… Could I ask you something else?”

His brow wrinkled in confusion. “Aye.”

“What’s a candlemark?”