Thieves' World: Turning Points

Jeff Grubb. Apocalypse Noun

Heliz Yunz, linguist of Lirt, moved between the documents scattered across his work desk with the furtive passion of a gambler closing in on a straight flush. He moved hunch-shouldered back and forth beneath the front window of his tiny garret, comparing notes and referencing texts. Three separate primers were propped open along the back of the bench, and another trio of heavy grimoires fortified one end of the desk. The subject of his attentions, a pair of weathered, dissimilar documents, were sprawled out, surrounded by foolscap notes in Heliz's own hand. The lean young scholar had a predatory grin, and his eyes were nearly white in the light of the tallow candles. He was oblivious to the world around him. He was on the hunt.

The precise nature and purpose of the two documents were im-material to the linguist's quest. One was a stained legal transcript written in the scratchy alphabet of the Rankan court language, rescued from an excavated midden. The other was an erotic poem on perfumed parchment, transcribed in a florid hand in Beysib script, originating far to the south and later imported to, then abandoned in, Sanctuary. What was important, as far as Heliz was concerned, was the words. Most importantly, a grouping of verbs about halfway down the Ranke document, and a similar group in the closing stanzas of the overheated Beysib sonnet. Heliz checked a primer, then returned to the two documents. Then he was off again to a Beysib dictionary, really little more than a phrase book, then back again. Then back to his shelves to pull one of the Crimson Tomes down to double check, then pulling some detail from one of the grimoires.

And there, cradled within each similar phrase like a pearl was a diminutive suffix, identical in both cases. A piece of hard, firm evidence that this small suffix might have once appended the greater words of power, the words that made the universe itself. He took a small leather-bound book from inside his stained ruddy robe, from the pocket over his heart, and slowly inscribed the phrase and the diminutive suffix together. There were only about a dozen entries in the book, but it held more power than any other tome in his cramped quarters. Indeed, more power than any tome within Sanctuary.

As he finished the last stroke of an accent mark, a heavy footfall creaked on the landing of the outside back stairs, and like a morning dream the revelation snapped apart and elation was shattered. Heliz scowled, his single great eyebrow dipping down towards the bridge of a hawk-like nose. He wanted to ignore the sound, dim the lamps, ignore the guest, but once the remarkable state of discovery was broken there was no return. Snarling mildly to himself, he spun towards the back of the garret, crossed the distance in a matter of three steps, and flung open the door on the surprised and unwelcome client.

The client was a big man, big in a bad way, with a sagging belly that spilled over the top of a wide belt straining at its last notch. A small face surrounded by waddles of fat, masked badly by a spotty beard. Knee-length cloak of good material, but well traveled. Other garments a mishmash of whatever was in fashion at the time they were purchased. A merchant, then, one hand still raised to knock.

"Help you?" snapped Heliz, sincerely hoping the answer was No.

The merchant reached inside his cloak, and pulled out a crumpled bit of paper, the last bits of sealing wax still adhered. "I was told you could read a letter for me."

The merchant's language was Rankan, but his bucolic tones identified him as from Berucat, far to the north. There was just a trace of dialect (clinging to his words like mud on a boot) that revealed he had spent a lot of time recently on the far side of the Shadow-foam.

"It's from my wife," added the merchant, as if it made any difference to the linguist.

"I'm sorry, you have the wrong garret, goodbye," said Heliz, but the merchant had already oozed a foot into the doorframe. He hefted the letter in sausage-heavy fingers and said, "The cooper said you'd do it for a fair coin."

Heliz glowered at the merchant, but the fat man failed to evaporate. Reaching out with a thin hand he snatched the letter from the merchant's hand and retreated back into his lair. "My landlord," said Heliz, "is much too impressed with my capabilities. I'll need my light."

The merchant lumbered in after him. Along the back wall were about a two dozen books, half of them acquired since Heliz Yunz's arrival in Sanctuary. None of them, of course, printed here.

"You're a man of letters?" said the merchant.

"No, I'm a collector of multi-volume paperweights," said Heliz. The linguist held the letter near his study lamp. "Rankan, of course, in execrable handwriting and missing half the prepositions. Masculine hand. Whoever wrote this for your wife carries themselves about as being a 'learned' man."

"One silver soldat to read it," said Heliz, holding a hand out. "In advance." The merchant fumbled with his pouch.

Upon pocketing the pay, Heliz said, "It is from your wife, though she enlisted someone else to write it. She says that she hopes this letter finds you in good health. One of her pearl earrings went missing the week previous to when she sent this, and she sacked one of the maids as a result. She asks you to respond as to when you are coming home. She implores you to be careful in your journey. She says she misses you, offers her passionate love and signs her name. There."

The merchant grunted and reached out for the letter. Heliz jerked it back in his hand.

"That's what it says," said the linguist, the sharp smile returning for a moment. "For another soldat I'll tell you what it means."

The merchant looked confused, then fumbled for his purse again. Pocketing the coin, Heliz regarded the letter again.

"The signature is different than the rest of the letter. Your wife knows no more of writing letters than you know of reading them. She's very comfortable with the dictation, and her scribe is trusted enough to write down intimate words. She's sleeping with whomever wrote this letter, and wants to know when you're coming home so she can hide her paramour away. Given the time it takes for you to get the letter, it's quite likely that more than the pearl earring will be missing by the time you get back to Berucat."

The merchant turned a florid crimson, wheeled, and stormed out of the garret. His boots thundered down the rickety stairs in the back of the cooper's shop.

"Which is why I ask to be paid in advance," said Heliz to empty air, a nasty smile breaking across his face. He turned back to the study lamp with the note, examining the paper. The other side of the note was perfectly usable, and even the side the message was written on could be salvaged with a little scraping.

Another footfall on the landing, this one just as heavy, but firmer and more assured. Heliz did not need to reach for the door. Lumm the staver owned the garret, the barrel shop beneath it, his own quarters and the small yard behind the building. He was a good-natured man, a tolerant man, and as far as Heliz was concerned, an ideal landlord. Lumm the staver was also as unlearned as the rest of the town's population, and left the linguist to his studies. Unless he was trying to be friendly. Unless he was trying to be helpful. In which case the larger man was a royal pain. But still, he was the landlord, and it paid to cozen him.

"What did you say this time?" said Lumm, managing to wrap the entire sentence in a sigh.

"It is not my fault if people write bad news," said Heliz, "Basic rules for translators—you don't blame the speaker for the words."

"It was something you said, I'll bet," said Lumm, mild irritation in his voice. "I found him at the Unicorn, you know. Told him you knew your letters. Figured you could have gotten a bit more out of him, say, writing a letter back. You passed up an opportunity."

"I don't need the sad cases you find in taverns, thank you," Heliz said in a mild tone. "I just wish to be left with my studies. Without interruptions." "It seems to me…" said Lumm.

"What I want," Lumm began, more strongly than he intended, then stopped. He took a deep breath. "I want a tenant to pay his rent. And I don't feel right taking silver buttons in trade."

Despite himself, Heliz's thin hand went to the buttons on his travel-stained robe. When he had left the tower, the entire row of buttons, thirty in number from hem to collar, had been silver—now all but three were replaced with wooden fasteners.

Still, the linguist said, "Do you think I should sit in the courtyard and scribe for anyone with the proper coin?"

"If it will pay your room and board, what of it?" said Lumm, his voice calm again, his eyebrows raised to make his point. "Another thing. The neighbors are complaining. You're boiling rags again."

"I'm making paper," said Heliz. "It's a necessity for my craft."

The landlord held up a protective hand. "So you told me, and I said you could do it, but it kicks up a stench that makes even the Hillers sit up. You might want to wait for the day afore market day. That's when most of the hogs are slaughtered and your stench won't be as noticed." Lumm was at the desk now, looming over the volumes and notebooks.

"I'll take that under advisement," said Heliz, but his eyes tracked Lumm's hands as they moved over the scattered notes and pages.

"So many different ways of writing," said Lumm, admiring the various scripts.

"Different languages," volunteered Heliz, hoping the man would soon grow bored and return to his drinking. "Different alphabets, often alien and mutually exclusive syntaxes. Some languages include more vowels, some do without them, some indicate tense by umlauts and carets…"

Lumm touched the small open notebook and Heliz's words died in his throat. "These are interesting. Poetry?"

Heliz reached out and grabbed the booklet from out in front of the stunned Lumm. Despite himself, the larger man staggered back, as if threatened.

Heliz held the small notebook to his chest. "Sorry."

"And what was that about?" said Lumm, truly irritated now. "It's not as if I can read your damned poems."

"I'm sorry," said Heliz, suddenly realizing he was in very real danger of losing his quarters. "They're not poems. They're words. Powerful words. Dangerous words."

Lumm's face clouded. "Dangerous? You mean like spells? Don't care for magic around here."

Heliz shook his head. "Not spells. I mean, not quite. These are the words that spells are made of. Wrapped at the heart of all spells are parts of these words, or at least cognates." He looked at the cooper, but only got a blank, puzzled look. "Um, similar words that sound like them. These words of power are the building blocks of the world. Using them, even unknowingly…" Heliz's face clouded for a moment in memory, but he shook it off. "Speaking them can be dangerous, in certain circumstances. Sorry if I startled you."

Heliz thought about trying to explain again, then said, "No. They're not spells, though a spellcaster might be interested in them."

Lumm looked at the linguist for a long moment. "People don't like spellcasters much in Sanctuary."

"I know," said Heliz, letting out a relieved sigh that nothing had really sunk into the barrel-maker's thick-spackled skull. "That's one reason I came here. Less danger of some wizard wanting to take my work. Privacy for my studies. That and there are so many languages that people have used here."

"Hmmmpf," said Lumm, looking at the collection of writing, and dismissing it. Heliz let himself relax. "I'll leave you to your work, then. But I hope you stung that merchant enough to make the rent. I don't want any more buttons. I'm going back to the Unicorn. You want to come?"

Heliz managed a modest shrug that would only fool someone like Lumm. "I cannot. I have my studies."

Lumm shook his head and galumphed down the back stairs, taking most of the air with him.

Heliz was suddenly aware that he was still clutching the booklet tightly to his chest. Carefully he opened it, as if the words caught within could escape. There were about a dozen. A verb that softened the earth for plowing. An adjective that caused fire to ignite. A turn of phrase that helped lambs' birthing.

Words that any mage would slay for, if he knew they existed.

And a single word, a noun, that Heliz had spoken aloud only once. A word that had devastated his home monastery and killed every one of the other Crimson Scholars. There had been fifty of them, members of his order, in a hillside tower a day's ride north of Lirt, all led by his great-grandmother. He had grown up there. He had studied there. And he had researched and toiled in its great libraries. And he had discovered this word there. And after he had spoken the deadly word, the tower lay in wreckage at the foot of the hill, and only he managed to pull himself from the wreckage.

And he had fled to the most illiterate, backwards, unmagical spot he could find to avoid ever having to deal with it again.

Lumm stalked through the streets, heading back to the Vulgar Unicorn. He wasn't angry at the little scholar as much as confused. Why would anyone turn down a bit of coin, especially for a skill that didn't require any heavy lifting? This scholar was a good tenant as tenants go, but his mule-headed devotion to words completely bum-fundled him. If the lad would just get out a little, he wouldn't be so tightly wound.

Above Sanctuary, the sky grumbled a warning curse. The cloud cover was heavy and low tonight, such that the reflections of fire-pits could been seen illuminating the rounded bottoms of the clouds. It looked like a trickster's storm, more like a summer storm than a winter one. A storm that could drench the town in an instant, or could equally pass over Sanctuary for more promising locations. As Lumm looked up, a spidery thread of lightning crawled along the cloud base, followed by the deep toll of thunder. Definitely a summer trickster's storm.

For the first time, Lumm wondered if Heliz was really a sorcerer.

He didn't seem like one, in that he didn't turn into things or have curses or anything. He didn't do any chanting, or dancing, or summoning. And he didn't have the animals, the familiars, stalking about. He wouldn't rent to someone with pets.

For that matter, why would a scholar be in Sanctuary? It was not as if the town had a university, or a library, or even other people interested in languages.

Of course, the easy solution would be just to leave the smaller scholar alone, take his silver buttons, and then turn him out on the street when his funds were exhausted. That would be the easiest solution.

Lumm shook his head. Without proper coin, this town would kick the small man into the gutter in a week's time. Heliz was right that Lumm looked for sad cases. Heliz was one of them.

The common room of the Unicorn was as smoke-ridden and murky as usual. Old Thool, the Unicorn's resident sot, was lurching from table to table, cadging what change and dregs of drinks he could manage. The two waitresses, known to all as Big Minx and Little Minx, threaded through the tables, grabbing empties and avoiding hands with equal deftness. Half the people in the room were watching the other half, and malice hung in the air with the smoke. A typical night, then.

Lumm himself scanned the room, looking for the Berucat merchant. No sign of his heavy frame. But Lumm's eyes stopped for a moment at one of the back tables.

At first he could have sworn that Heliz was a wizard, and had gotten to the Unicorn before he did. On second thought, the table's occupant could have been the scholar's sister. She was dressed similarly to the linguist, though her red robes, running from neck to ankle, were cleaner, newer, and still had all of their silver buttons. Yet her hair was as dark as the scholar's, swept back instead of in the bowl cut that Heliz wore. They shared sharp features: dark, heavy eyebrows and a thin, raptorish nose. Yes, she could have been his sister.

And Lumm was staring long enough that the newcomer realized she was being watched. She gave Lumm a smile and beckoned him come over.

"Help you?" she said in a pleasant, soothing voice.

"Sorry to stare," Lumm stammered. "You just remind me of someone." There might be another reason, he realized, that the linguist was in Sanctuary. It would not be the first time someone came to the town to lose themselves of pursuers, family, creditors, or all three.

"No offense taken," said the young woman. She looked a few years younger than Heliz. A younger sister? Surely not a daughter. Heliz did not strike him as either being old enough or bold enough to spawn any young. "Sit and tell me about it," she continued.

"Sorry to disturb you," said Lumm.

"I said sit and tell me about it." And she said something else as well, something low and wispy that the staver did not catch, that brushed against his mind and was immediately forgotten.

Lumm suddenly found himself in the chair opposite, though he did not remember sitting down.

The young woman in the red robes leaned forward, and Lumm could not help but notice that, unlike Heliz, the newcomer did not use the top dozen buttons of her garment. Yet it was her eyes that most caught his attention—wide, deep, and green. Eyes you could wander around in. "I remind you of someone?" she said.

"Another fellow," said Lumm. '"I mean, not that you're a fellow and all. Dressed like you. The fellow. And you." "These are the robes of my order," said the young lady. "I am a Crimson Scholar. Have you heard of

them?" Lumm felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. "No," he managed. "Really?" she said, and added that breathy, low word again. Lumm felt the words surge up his throat like

a bad egg sandwich.

"I've never heard of your order," he said, almost like it was a single word. It was the truth, of course, but he felt compelled to say it. "You just look like someone else I've seen." The young woman raised a glass of mulled wine, the spices heavy even at Lumm's distance. "So you said.

Friend of yours?"

Despite himself, Lumm laughed. "I don't think he has any friends. A very private person. Wants to be left alone. Spends most of his time in his room. Reclusive, that's the word." "Indeed," said the young woman, "that's the word. You know where to find him?" "I should," said Lumm, "I'm his landlord. Maybe I should go get him, if you're looking for him." "Maybe you should tell me where he is," said the young woman, and for a third time added a breathy

addendum. Again, Lumm felt the need to tell her, felt the words vomiting upwards. But as he opened his mouth, Old

Thool slammed into both him and the table, hard. The young woman dropped her glass on the table, sending shards and wine everywhere. She raised her arm to keep it from getting in her face. "Padpol for an old veteran?" slurred the drunk. "Go jump off the dock," snarled the young woman, her face suddenly a mask of rage. She added

something as well, that struggling fish of a word that kept avoiding getting tangled in Lumm's mind. Thool stood bolt upright and started lurching towards the door. Lumm rose as well, suddenly realizing he was sweating. He didn't look directly at the young woman, but

instead said, "Let me get a rag to clean all this up. Won't take a moment." Without waiting for an answer,

he headed for the bar, and grabbed Little Minx by the arm. He pressed slivers of pot-metal into her hand. "Get a clean rag for the young woman in red. And another drink. And keep an eye on her until I get back. And don't talk to her."

Little Minx responded with a coquettish nod and a wink, and Lumm was gone as well, out into the night. The barmaid turned and regarded the young woman with the hard, practiced eye of a Sanctuary native.

A few years older than she, but only a few. Wine-spattered robe, but otherwise in good apparent financial shape. Definitely first time in Sanctuary. Little Minx headed over towards the back table, a slim smile on her lips. She wondered how much more

she could get from this fat pigeon by telling her whatever Lumm didn't want her to know about.

Heliz sighed deeply. Of course the moment, the thrill of discovery, wasn't coming back again. Once the path of reasoning was upset, there was no recovery. He had managed the diminutive form, but the two documents were just that—pieces of paper with writing. They held their secrets.

Still, he did not pay enough attention to the heavy footfalls up the back stairs, and jumped in his seat when Lumm, without preamble or politeness, burst into his garret. "Your sister is here!" the large man blurted out.

All Heliz could manage was a startled, "What?" "Your sister," said the staver, gulping for air. He had run the last block, or at least tried to. "At the Unicorn. I think she's looking for you."

"I never had a sist…" started Heliz, then caught himself up short. "A woman in red robes?" "She said she was a Crimson Scholar," said Lumm, "I suppose you are too. You never said." Heliz waved a hand to silence the larger man. "Black hair, worn long? Green eyes? Almost as tall as I

am?" "Yes, yes, and yes," said Lumm, Heliz Yunz turning paler with each answer. "I'll need my satchel," said Heliz, launching over to the desk to pull out a heavy bag. "I left her at the tavern, and said I would go get you," said Lumm. "Not enough room," said Heliz, looking into the depths of the bag. "Need to take the base primers, and

the Ilsig grammars. And the Beysib phrase book. I'm never going to find those again. But what to leave behind?"

"Are you in trouble with your sister?" asked Lumm. "Perhaps if I told her…" "She is not my sister," said Heliz, turning on the cooper. "Her name is Jennicandra. She is my Great. Grand. Mother. And Yes, I am in trouble with her."

Lumm stood there, a puzzled look on his face, as Heliz started throwing bulky volumes into the satchel. "Now wait a moment. She's younger than you are…" Heliz was choosing which tome to take and which to abandon. "I know. She's very powerful."

"Powerful? I don't…" "I told you about the power of words. Jennicandra knows these words. Each morning after she rises, she speaks a word of power that keeps the demons of age at bay. She's looked that way for a century. She has a lot of words. More than me. I thought she died when the tower fell, but no such luck. She's tracked me down." He put both tomes aside and dumped his scribe's pouch into the satchel, then touched the notebook resting over his heart. "I have to go. Here's the silver. Sell the books and whatever else I've left behind."

"You said they weren't spells," said Lumm. "I said they weren't like spells," said Heliz, his voice rising. "They are the hearts of spells. The bits that connect for their powers. They are words that should not be spoken. Ideas that should not be evoked. And she knows more of them than I do."

Lumm continued to block the door. "I think you two need to talk."

"I blew up her tower!" shouted Heliz. "I found a very, very dangerous word and uttered it like a damned fool, and blew up the monastery! She's going to want me dead! Now out of my…" The words died in Heliz's throat at a sound in the street out front. It was a single string of syllables,

chanted softly. The linguist's face went white and he pressed both palms against Lumm's chest, forcing the larger man backwards in surprise. Lumm recognized the voice.

"Back! Out the door! She's here!" shouted Heliz. The front of the garret was already losing all color, turning an ash white that spread from the window overlooking the street. Desk, books, and shelves all slowly were drained, turning first white, and then a pebbly gray. Then, like burned ash, it began to fall in on itself, cascading downwards, striking the whitened floor like dumped flour. Then the floor itself turned gray and began to dissolve as well.

"What is—?" began Lumm, looking as the front of the house disintegrated.

"Out. Now!" shouted Heliz, grabbing his satchel and pushing the cooper out the door onto the back landing. Both men were now in flight, hurtling down the back stairs. Behind them the house continued to collapse

upon itself, becoming nothing more than a cloud of silent gray ash. "What was that?" gasped the barrel-maker. "A collection of syllables," said Heliz. "It pulls the energy out of wood and stone without burning, leaving

only the ash behind. It's one of her favorites." "She's a sorceress!" muttered Lumm. "Worse," said Heliz, clutching his bag of books. "She's a thesaurus." The clouds of settling ash thundered behind them. "Heliz!" shouted a female voice from the ashen cloud.

"Show yourself! I won't harm you!" "How do we fight her?" asked Lumm. "With our feet. Put distance between us and her. What's the best way out of town?" Lumm thought a moment. "This way. There are some abandoned manors north of the city. You could

hole up there until she moves on. Follow."

The two darted down the alleyway behind the house. Above, the pregnant clouds were just starting to spit a hot drizzle, and the sky rumbled like a dyspeptic deity. At the end of the alley, the pair dodged out on the street. The rough, dirt-packed road was blocked to

the south by a surging billow of ghostly dust. A huge shadow loomed up in the dust, resolving into a great, animated statue. It was in the form of a great ape walking on all fours, its stone knuckles leaving deep imprints in the muddy road. Its maw burned with a fiery, greenish light that shone like a beacon. Riding on its shoulders was a raven-haired young woman in crimson robes.

"Heliz!" she shouted, and it seemed she could outshout the thunder itself. "Surrender now! You don't want to make this worse than it is!"

They passed two alleys and dodged down the third. Heliz was already breathing hard, and his chest was tight and his arms tired from carrying the satchel. He plastered himself again a wall.

"Change in plans," he huffed. "Let's go to the heart of the city. Maybe go to the Maze. The docks. Hells, head for the Unicorn. There'll be more people there. Someone who can handle her."

Lumm the staver shook his head. "No. We bring sorcery to the heart of the city, and there will be a mob all right, but they'll be after our heads as well. Don't you know any spells to stop her?"

"They are NOT spells," Heliz Yunz said testily, "they are words. Words the gods used when they built the world."

"What about the big word, the one that blew up her tower?" asked Lumm.

"That noun destroyed an area about a half-mile in radius," said Heliz. "Would you wish that on Sanctuary?"

The staver did not get a chance to respond, for they were transfixed in a beacon of greenish light issuing from their pursuer's maw. Perched behind the stone ape's head, Jennicandra laughed.

Lumm cursed, invoking several Ilsig gods.

The malediction made a connection in Heliz's mind, reminding him of another string of words. He pressed his hands against the hard-packed dirt of the roadway and spoke a scattering of syllables.

It was the earth-softening phrase, the one that would help speed the plow at planting time. Here, in the increasing rain, it had a greater affect.

The rock-ape lumbered towards them, but its knuckles sank deeper into the road than before. It lurched forwards, off-balance, and almost threw Jennicandra from her seat. Now the softening had spread down the alley, and its hindquarters were sinking as well, mired in the newly softened earth. It raised one hand, pulling up tarry strands of dirt and debris with it. The creature bellowed, and its flaming cry was met by thunder.

Lumm grabbed the satchel of books and shouted at Heliz, "Manors! Now!" And he was gone, not looking back.

Heliz looked back at the trapped rock-ape. There was no sign of Jennicandra, and now the rain was heavy and black, worsening its situation. He started off after the staver.

The rain was small hot spears now, spattering the road and driving even the hardiest natives to shelter. The pair stopped talking, taking refuge in the low overhangs and doorways, working their way north and east towards the manors. The closed shops and shuttered houses began to finally give way to open, empty lots and rubbled buildings, and finally to the rolling slopes of the manors themselves.

The worst of the rain had abated now, and had settled into a sullen, pounding patter. Both men were drenched to the skin and breathless. They dodged into the nearest of the old manors, a rotted manse than had only seen thieves and other fugitives as its tenants for over a decade.

They sat in the darkness for a while, the only sound the pounding of the rain on the upper floor. The roof of this manor had disappeared some time earlier. "What now?" said Lumm. "I can't stay," said Heliz. "She found me here. She wants vengeance. I can head across the Shadowfoam,

work my way north again to the Ilsig capitol. Maybe lose her there." There was a pause, and Heliz

added, "Sorry to be such a poor tenant." "I'm going back," said Lumm, rising to his feet. "See what the damages are. Salvage what I can. I'll get you some food and water, if you can wait until morning."

Heliz nodded, and Lumm's shadowy form moved towards the door. "Lumm?" said Heliz. The older man stopped in the doorway. Whatever Heliz was going to say was disrupted by a blast of greenish light. It struck Lumm like a

hammer, knocking him from his feet. Lumm bellowed, covering his eyes as he fell. "Heliz!" came Jennicandra's voice from outside. "Show yourself." Heliz pulled himself to his feet. Cursing himself. Cursing his great-grandmother. Cursing Lumm and the

gods and words and Sanctuary itself. He moved into the doorway. Outside, the rain had stopped, but only in the immediate vicinity. It formed a curtain around the manor's

front drive. Standing before the main doors was the red-clad form of Jennicandra, Mistress of the Crimson Scholars. Behind her loomed the green-mawed ape made of hewn rock. "Heliz," said Jennicandra, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile. "Great-grandmother," said Heliz, his throat tightening. "You've caused me a lot of trouble, child," she said reproachfully.

Her mannerisms were careful now, those of an old person. She looked like a child playacting. "I'm sorry," said Heliz, feeling his knees tremble and threaten to go out. "I didn't mean to destroy the tower. I didn't know the word was that dangerous. Don't kill me."

The smile blossomed fully on the young/old woman's lips. "Kill you? Hardly. Not while you have that useful word in your mind."

"But the tower?" Jennicandra laughed harshly. "What of the tower? Fifty scribes. A word that powerful is worth five hundred. I've been looking for words like that. Original words. Words of Destruction and Creation. Show me the word you learned, child. I'll be happy to leave you in this hole of a town if you just show me the word."

She said something else, something that Heliz heard and then forgot immediately. Something that slid off his brain, leaving a muzzy residue behind. He wanted to speak, but his throat tightened at fear of his

great-grandmother. He shook his head, more in confusion than in negation.

Again she added something else, the extra syllable that strained at the gates of Heliz's mind. Heliz made a gasping whisper. "I'm sorry," he managed. Despite himself, he clutched at the notebook resting over his thundering heart.

Jennicandra took another step forward. "You disappoint. All those deaths are meaningless, child, unless I get the word. Unless I get the power. It's your purpose in life. It's in your notebook, isn't it? I can take it off your body. Don't fight me, child. Your blood comes from me. You owe it to me. Give it to me. Give me the word."

This time the syllable struck like a blade against the bounds of his mind, and the torrent came loose. He felt the sudden need to pull the small notebook out, to show his Great-grann-nanna what he did, to make her proud of him. He reached for the book.

And something large and heavy slammed into him, knocking him against the side of the door. Something sharp broke inside Heliz's mind, and he realized that he had fallen beneath one of Jennican-dra's own words of power.

Lumm, rubbing his shoulder, bellowed, "Use it, Heliz! Use it on her!"

Heliz looked at the staver. "But the town…"

"Will be my first test of power," said Jennicandra, and she shouted, "NOW, GIVE ME THE WORD!" and added her word of power. Behind her, the rock-ape bellowed in chorus.

Heliz opened his mouth and screamed, bellowed the word of power that had been unspoken these many months. It was a short word, but charged with the power of sun and stars and earth and creation. It pulled fury with it, and detonated right where Jennicandra was standing.

And as Heliz shouted the word, he changed it, twisting it in his mind and his throat to merge it with the diminutive form he had discovered earlier in the evening. He appended it more as a hopeful prayer than as a real attempt to control the damage.

A bright light flashed, one that Heliz had seen once before, long ago in the tower. It blossomed outwards, encasing his great-grandmother, the rock-ape, and licking at the entrance of the manor itself. Yet it was contained, folded back upon itself by its diminutive suffix. It looked as if a massive ball of lightning had detonated among the manor houses, turning the region to brief, sudden day.

And as suddenly as it appeared, it diminished again, collapsing like energy without matter to house it, pulling itself inwards and evaporating in a single point. The area in a fifty-foot circle was blasted black, and the stone front of the manor house was charred and blackened. All that remained of the rock-ape was a pair of roughly hewn feet, which could be imagined as being anthropoid only with a vivid imagination. Of the Great-grandmother of the

Crimson Scholars there was no sign. The rain was falling again in the courtyard, and the thunder grumbled in the sky like a god disturbed from its slumbers.

Lumm helped Heliz to his feet. The linguist had not realized he had collapsed. "You got her," said Lumm, self-satisfaction in his voice.

"No, you got her," assured Lumm. "If she lived through that, she's a better thesaurus, or sorceress, or whatever, than she should be."

Lumm thumped down the broad steps of the manor house, then turned. "You coming?"

Heliz was quiet for a moment, wrestling with his thoughts. "Yes. Let me take you to the Unicorn. I suppose I owe you a drink."

Lumm shook his head, then spat, "You owe me a house, linguist." He growled, "And I just hope you like working in the central courtyard, because that's where you're going to be until you pay me back."

And with that the barrel-maker headed down the slope, listening as he walked for the footsteps of the linguist behind him.