2. N #3
He took a deep breath. Up to this moment, he could still turn away.
The Probe broke every ethical boundary, along with a hatful of laws.
This sort of thing was only permitted to the Lord Artificers, and even then, only with the permission of the entire Council of Kings.
He would hang outside the city walls if word of this got out. Time to go.
“Go,” he said. “Explore. Return with a sample. Something living. Alive. Undamaged. When you have it, put it in the return cage and push it through. Then return. Understand?”
It nodded its head fractionally, the gray triangular face with the scaled skin and oversized eyes, a last vestige of the person it had been before he had begun his work.
It moved with a sinuous grace and crossed to the Gate, then went through. The Gate flashed outward in rippling rainbows as the Probe stepped in, and vanished.
Lord Haldeen Gatekeeper quickly moved the catch-trap in front of the small Gate.
The Probe had its orders, but he took no chances.
His catch-trap had a sliding metal door that nearly touched the Gate and was held open by a small incantation that would break the moment something crossed it.
The metal cage was divided by a central set of bars, and a pass-through arrangement for the Probe to deposit its cargo, and where Haldeen could harvest it while remaining safe away from the Probe’s clawed hands.
He settled in on the bench for a long wait. He had a few documents to read that he’d left in the lab, but after several moments of staring at them with gritty eyes, he gave up. He leaned back against the wall, crossed his legs, and tried to get comfortable enough to doze for a bit.
The Gate began to flash and pulse, the sign of an incoming transit.
He sat up, puzzled, and increasingly alarmed.
Something must have gone wrong. Badly wrong.
The Probe should be gone for hours, and certainly shouldn’t be returning this soon.
He reached over for the control, ready to sever the magic and stop the transit.
His thumb hovered over the button, ready to shut down the Gate, just as the Probe stepped through. It carried something in its arms.
Haldeen stood. He froze … torn among curiosity, fear, and alarm. The Probe had disobeyed. Instead of using the catch-trap on the other side, and pushing its prey through first as it had been instructed … it had come through itself, bearing something. It had been gone … at most … a quarter mark.
Haldeen cleared his throat, buying time while he worked to figure out what to tell it to do.
He noted that it did look like it had completed its mission, and brought back a sample.
He opened his mouth to speak, when the Probe dropped its burden into the sliding chute, where it slid to the floor of his catch-cage.
Not how Haldeen had wanted it done, or how he had told the Probe to do it …
but the sample had wound up where he wanted it.
Haldeen started to order it to go dormant, but it completed that task as well, without being told.
The Probe returned to its own cage near his catch-trap, squatted down on its heels, wrapped its arms around its knees, and closed its eyes.
Haldeen let out a long exhalation, gratefully dumped the remaining magic from its control module, and shut the Gate down.
Once the swirling ended and the small Gate went quiet, Haldeen locked the Probe in its heavier keeping-cage, checking twice to ensure the locks had fully closed, to keep it there when it waked.
Only then, did he turn to examine his prize.
The probe had returned with something with the right size and shape to be an elf, and not visibly damaged, or at least not leaking enough blood for it to show on the floor.
He gave it a quick once over, looking for obvious injury.
It appeared undamaged, though certainly unconscious. Time for a better look.
He took a control-collar from the work-table and opened it, working the hinge once or twice with his hands to make sure it would close when needed, and making sure it was set to “sleep” before stepping over to the inner portion of the catch-cage.
He opened the door, stepped in, and snapped the collar around its neck.
The collar would keep it insensate until he was ready for it to awaken.
Most elves subject to the sleeping setting on a collar reported horrible nightmares upon waking, but that was not his problem.
Once he had the sample safely collared, he bent down and transferred it to his work-table to examine it.
He placed a couple of mage-lights close by, and set his remote to record his notes.
“Subject is clearly an elf,” he said, using the professorial voice he’d learned when making important reports.
People would listen to this, read the transcripts.
Best to keep it dry and academic. History being made.
First exam of a sample returned from a world lost a century prior.
“Subject is of inferior stock. Skin is pale where not sunburned, and marked with numerous bruises, scrapes and contusions. Hands are small and delicate, and have no visible calluses. Overall physical condition appears to suffer from inbreeding, perhaps … pale, thin, asexual,
and altogether unwholesome looking, with somewhat exaggerated, attenuated features. Big eyes, small mouth, high forehead.”
As though slightly stretched, he thought, “It appears to be female, but as narrow-hipped as a boy.” Best check to confirm.
“A quick inspection of its genitals confirms its gender. Female.”
Keep it academic. Avoid the prurient. “Minimal secondary sexual characteristics. Attire appears well made for outdoor expeditions, but overall physical condition suggests a largely sedentary, indoor life-style. Inspection of its palms shows bruising, but no calluses.
Nails are artificially tended and painted, but chipped, suggesting ….”
He broke off, unsure what it meant. “The subject’s face is also painted, but streaked with grime and sweat, and carries the strong scent of something sweet-smelling. Native perfume perhaps; note to ask spouse about what females do for appearance enhancement and hygiene.
It remains sedated by means of a standard sleeping-collar, with occasional eye-movements suggesting the usual response.”
Meaning horrendous nightmares. The sleeping-collars were used as much for punishment as they were for sedation.
He went on for some time, aware he moved ever further into the trivial, before finally ending the recording spell and sitting on the bench.
Success beyond his wildest expectations on his first cast of the net …
and he hadn’t the slightest idea of what to do next.
He stared at it … her … and had a good long think about his next move.
He considered reporting his catch, then realized he would lose control of this prize immediately …
followed shortly by questions he wasn’t sure was ready to answer.
He glanced over at the Probe and amended …
definitely wasn’t ready to answer. Better to keep it …
her … under wraps for now, until he had a clearer idea of how to proceed.
He rubbed his brow, staring at his dormant prize from another world while he worked through how to proceed.
He laughed mirthlessly. When he’d had a sample in mind, he was thinking the Probe would bring him a small native beast or bird or something, or piece of cargo … not this.
The water clock chimed dawn’s coming, surprising him.
He had spent the night in thought. The clepsydra chimed again, keying the chirping birdsong that marked the sun’s rise, and which he found useful and annoying in equal measure.
A gift from the King’s Prime Minister, on the occasion of being made a lord.
Presumably meant to ensure that he would never oversleep, since neither the chimes nor the song could be muted, reset, or turned off.
Apparently his Lordship the Prime Minister has never himself had to work through the night.
That was the main reason the clock was down here instead of in his bedroom.
He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, suddenly aware of his stiff back, and fatigue. Another night, worn away in thought.
The Household would be rising, and with it, would come breakfast.
The routines of the day would give him more time to think, and to plan what he would do next.
He rolled the table with the sleeping girl into a holding cell, and double checked the lock to ensure it was tightly fitted.
He doubted the elf would escape the ‘sleeper’, but stout locks would serve as a good backup in case he was wrong.
He closed the secure door behind him, setting the spells to alarm him if anyone entered his work area, then set the illusion that hid his real workroom.
Illusions remained the province of entertainers and women, but his served well enough to pass cursory inspection.
He left the workroom and up through the mage-fused walls of his house to the passageway that led to the courtyard, and his tower.
He crossed the open grass and the stairways up into the living quarters, where servants had long since started their daily chores.
His emergence from the courtyard stair earned a startled squeak from one of the sculleries, approaching from an unexpected direction and unexpected time.
Usually he went down to his courtyard office or workroom after breakfast, in the lull between that meal and the midmeal—and came back up just before supper.
The maid gave him a quick curtsey as he swept past, still in his day-clothes from the day before, and sporting a stubble.
There would be talk, no doubt. But certainly nothing that would do anything more than reflect well on his diligence.
Master was working through the night again! How well he serves our king!
A quick bath, and change before breakfast. His stomach growled as he smelled the fried meat. Real meat, from a real animal … and not the spell-made stuff from the vats. His stomach rumbled again. A very short bath. I wonder what the occasion is?
He went to his own chambers, far separate from Andaleisia’s, who kept to her own rooms, and to her own schedule in the mornings.
He hoped today would not be one of the days when she elected to put in an appearance, and they had to sit and make nice noises at each other for the sake of whatever appearance she tried to keep up.