Equations

[The International]

Equations

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This is not a story about magic.
This is not a story about science.
This is a story about both.

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“Fellow Elders.” Roxad Xenu’shar said, standing on a mahogany stage with the towering Kachuck Cataract at his back, addressing an audience of three thousand long coats, embroidered dresses, and little brass trinkets, and flaunting a leather work vest, matching trousers, and shaded goggles - all stained with soot. “I’ll begin by requesting your forgiveness for my attire. The day began with a malfunctioning balloon, a brand new one at that. You know, with the multidirectional steam pulsars?”

The audience, dominated by Dark Elves and sprinkled by a few Humans, gave a forgiving heckle, several of them having been in his situation. “What was wrong with it?”

“Everything.” The one they called Rox threw his hands up as they responded humorously. “You all laugh but it’s the truth. It exploded at least three times and I’ve had to replace more than a dozen parts, but it sparked a bit of nostalgia in me. Remember the days when a Drow could just inflate a balloon and let the wind take him? When an airship was just that, a ship in the air? When a dueling flintlock pistol was a truly valued fashion statement everyone wanted but only a few of us possessed.” He tapped on the curved wooden butt of his holstered pistol.

His peers cheered.

“No matter how flimsy it was!? Oh don’t let anyone duel in the middle of the wet season! Or else you are more likely to see two men standing twenty paces apart just jiggling to unclog their guns,” The Elder exposed his firearm and shook it near his crotch. “And onlookers wondering if both parties were pleasuring themselves.”

His peers belted side splitting laughs, once again having been in his situation.

“Times have changed indeed.” His voice deepened, signaling a somber quiet. “Just five short years ago we were on the brink of civil war with an assassinated Queen. Now we’re the closest thing to stability in the known world. Our King’s human counterpart to the north was deposed, an old Matriarchy in Fallien almost fell to harpies, and what was once a fledgling motley mix of people in a small island nation centuries ago is now a maritime power that feeds everyone. That includes us.”

Several Elders voiced concerned agreement, for this was a fact that made many in Alerar uncomfortable.

Rox continued. “Speaking of Corone, The Citadel hosts more and more warriors with supernatural gifts every year. The records do not lie. Our own alchemists are achieving more powerful and complex transmutations. Our ancestral rivals have suffered at the hands of Xem zund twice in the last decade, the so called Saint Danebriel emerged in Salvar for a time, and there are even reports of the Red Witch Pode. So let us take inventory. More commoners are developing uncommon abilities, our alchemy is more potent, and three out of four of the Forgotten Ones emerged. It seems as though the supernatural is becoming more… natural these days.”

If it was quiet before, it was silent now.

“And the Tap, let us not forget about the Tap – the theorized source of all magic in this world which was shattered by the war named after it 10,000 years ago. One piece of it fuels Raiaeran Song Magic, another piece of it fuels the planeswalkers of Fallien, another fuels Salvic wizardry, so on and so forth, but what place does it have in our society of science and reason. Yes, the obvious answer is Alchemy, but my team and I believe there is more to it all than that. We have developed a theory proposing that the developing Laws of Physics and the Tap -which we continue to ignore- are one in the same.”

The crowd exploded in anger, hats and other accessories flying at him. “Object all you want in your Alerian rejection of magic, but suppress your nationalistic hearts and steel your objective minds. When you do, you will know that this is at least plausible, if not likely. And there’s more. We also hypothesize that the Tap has been repairing itself since its fracture…”

“… and it’s almost whole again.”

[The International]

He was listening. He would have sworn it on his mother’s life, but if his mother heard him swearing on her life, she’d end his, so he didn’t. Nonetheless he was listening. You see, his mind didn’t work like most other people’s minds, the act of focusing being more destructive than productive. It flickered about, making him a slave to every stimulant, no matter how insignificant, so he needed to distract a part of his mind, the part that often proved to others that he was listening, so when High Graf Schynius - the second most powerful man in the country - finally took enough offense at his apparent carelessness, turned his burning ebony steam cannons for eyes on him, and asked through clinched ivory teeth “Are you listening, good sir?” he could raise his gaze from the oversized Alerian cuff he had been fidgeting with, send a reassuring look to the Human woman across the table from him, and say..

“Your maiden name is Tera Mill, you were born a Coronian, but lived most of your life in Alerar in the indentured service of Xax Darkstorm, an Alerian noble and captain of industry. It was his labor force along with the High Graf’s funding that helped build the Alerar – Salvar rail line. The two of you had built a personal relationship during that time. When your service was over, you wanted to keep working for him. You were even willing to extend your contract as temporary slave by other nations’ definitions, but, realizing your devotion to him was the rarest of all things, he did you one better and got on one knee. After the knot was tied, however, he changed. He was abusive, cold, and adulterous, but you withstood it because as bad of a husband as he was, he was a great father to your son and daughter… Until last week, when he killed Elder Mathematician and Physicist Tomil Raton and his team, abducted your kids, and disappeared.”

See? Vespasian Villeneuve was listening.

“Well…” Tera said through smiling façade, voice trembling, amber eyes bloodshot, pale cheeks flush, short black hair disheveled but still fashionable. “It seems Mr. V was.”

“Just V. So.” Vespasian said as his eyes darted to a long window as a bird flew by, casting a shadow on Vera’s face. “Do you have any questions for us?” He could still feel Schynius’ eyes on him. The High Graf would have probably preferred they not knock on that door, but...

“I do. Just one.” She opened the door Vespasian had knocked on. “I appreciate having the full force of Alerar’s Royal Court on my side, but why? My husband is but one of many Grafs. People go missing every day.”

“But your husband is a Graf nonetheless, Miss Mill, one of our own.” Schynius leaned in, locking eyes with Tera, placing his hand on hers, and softening his voice, all feeble attempts at sympathy. “One who has abused his wife for years, abducted his children, killed an Elder, and left his estate – nearly an tenth of Alerar’s land without immediate management.”

“Besides bread and butter.” Vespasian would show him how it was done. “The King himself knows what it feels like to lose family.” He was referring to the assassination of the King’s cousin, Queen Valsheress a few short years ago. “And he’s not the only one. Here. Take this.” He stood up and walked around the large oak table, while reaching into one of the pockets of his vest, and revealing a pale purple diamond hanging on a silver chain. “Probably not worth much in the markets, but it’s priceless to me.”

“What is it?” She caressed the coin sized diamond as he put the chain around her neck.

“It’s a family heirloom.” He pointed to her cleavage.

“What family is that?” She got the hint, burying the jewel in her low cut tunic.

“Now why would I give you a family name if I only gave you one letter to call me by?” He returned to his seat as they all laughed nervously. “All you need to know is that there are five of us, and seven of these. You can have this until your children are found. Will you be staying in Etheria Port for the foreseeable future?”

Tera nodded. “Etheria Inn.”

“I believe we’ve put you through enough for today.” Schynius stood, signaling the end of the meeting. It was then that his status was in full view of Vespasian as he rose, his deep blue longcoat adorned with the evidence, white lotus of the Noble Graf pinned to the collar, brass gear of the Capitol of Ettermire pinned to left left breast, and mythril compass of the High Graf hanging on a thick chain of matching make.

Tera stood, bid them farewell, and she took her leave, opening the door of the commandeered café, allowing the sounds of the Etheria streets to pour in, but before she did, Vespasian needed to throw one more pebble into the pond. “Tera, as a private citizen of Alerar it is within your rights to hire alternative means of investigation and rescue services.”

She nodded, feigning a smile, and left, leaving Vespasian to face the wrath of the High Graf all alone. From what he’d seen of Schynius since his family had pledged service to Alerar last month, he seemed to be smart and calculating, but quick to anger. Hopefully his intellect trumped his short temper. The young operative couldn’t tell seeing as he kept his eyes on the door.

“I get it.” the High Graf said, the glee in his voice evident. Vespasian exhaled slowly as to not tip him off. “She didn’t trust us despite your efforts. That much was clear, so you reminded her of her rights hoping to send her to a private investigator she’ll divulge everything to.” Vespasian felt his face grow into a crooked smile made of both confusion and amusement as he looked upon the perfectly aged mahogany face of Schynius, adorned with his signature sinister smile. He let him continue. “You will follow her?”

Vespasian shook his head.

“You will have her followed?” his eyes narrowed, tainting that smile with slight concern.

“You know…” Vespasian tilted his head. “You’d be forty-five.”

“I am twenty-three hundred exactly.” The High Graf now mirrored the youngest Villeneuve’s confused expression. “I do not follow.”

“If you were Human. I’ve been playing this little game since we moved here. Our life expectancy is much shorter than yours, seventy years at best, so I look at Dwarves and Alerian Elves and estimate how old they would be if they were Humans. You’d be forty-five.” Vespasian gave him a lively pat on the shoulder. “You wear it well.”

“Ah well thank… Wait! The matter at hand!” His flattered smile quickly turned to a focused scowl. “The woman. You’ll have her followed?”

“…No.”

“Then what, pray tell, do you plan on doing?” The High Graf’s clinched teeth returned.

“Did you ask my sister how she was going to get rid of your little problem in Kachuck?” He said, making a quizzical gesture. “Did you ask my other sister how she planned on turning a foreign national into an asset?”

“You are not your sisters!” The High Graf snarled.

“No.” He sat and leaned back on the chair. “I’m not. I’m the one they trust more than they trust each other, more than they trust themselves” he said casually, his father shining through more than ever. “That’s saying quite a bit, I think, especially being younger than the both of them. So if you trust them you need to trust me.”

“I shall be the judge of that. What are you going to do?”

“Just continue with your investigation and allow me to do my part.”

“You are my investigation.” A moment of tense silence passed before Schynius took his leave, stomping for the door, but just as he opened it he mumbled something to himself. “I knew I should have gotten another.”

… Another Villenueve; Mother, Father, one of his sisters, anyone but him. Vespasian had to contain himself, his heart slamming at his chest, his head throbbing in agony, his vision red with indiscriminant rage. Whether he was supposed to hear Schynius say that or not didn’t change the fact that he did, and thus another person was added to the long and ever growing list of people who underestimated the baby of the Villeneuve family despite his many achievements. He had saved Alerar once, his sisters countless times, his parents twice, and still here he was at the bottom. Why? Because of his eccentricities, or because he was the youngest, or because he was so good at what he did that no one knew he did it? And to think, he liked Schynius up to this point. The middle sister, Ludivine, sang his praises, and the patriarch, Esme, admired his cunning. He was like them… up until now. It was a shame. Vespasian would just have to prove himself.

’Vespasian?’ The soothing voice of his oldest sister, Maelle echoed within his mind, tickling his inner ear. ’You just sent me a wave.’

’Wave of what? He thought as he dug into his heirloom out from under his tunic.

’All of the physical signs tell me anger. I’m in Ettermire if you’re near. Do you need to talk.’

Yea… but I’m six hours away. He caressed the pale purple diamond in his hands. The former crown jewels of the late Queen Valsheress – now a set of Villeneuve family heirlooms – made this long distance telepathy possible between them. ‘I gave an asset one of our heirlooms, but I need to take mine off for a while. Can you keep an ear out for any auditory thoughts?’

’I will.’

The youngest Villeneuve yanked the chain off of his neck without saying goodbye, and dropped it on the table. He stood, crossed the sea of oak tables and chairs, and vaulted over the marble bar in the back, beginning his search for his favorite beverage. The owners wouldn’t be back for a while, and he needed a drink. Then he found it, his favorite ale – a national staple made from a mixture of hops, a rare home grown wheat, spice from Fallien, and fruits from Scara Brae. It was cloudy with golden yeast as a watery mouthed Vespaisan poured himself a fat glass, left a generous four gold coins on the countertop, pocketed his heirloom and set off. As he stepped out into the afternoon sun, an odd salty smell hit his nose, forcing him to release a sneeze, prompting passersby’s to harmlessly chuckle as he started down the street, for they knew as he did what it was – an occasional southbound wind, carrying the scent of the capitol’s sulfur to tickle the nostrils.

To a foreigner, Etheria Port was an absurd city abound with cockamamie contraptions, but compared to Alerar’s three other major cities – the mining city of Kachuck, the manufacturing capitol of Ettermire, and the secretive research center of Nauplez – the port was, in Vespasian’s opinion, the most tame of them all, featuring only a dozen balloons and a handful of old fashioned airships over its modest skyline. The ancient stone buildings, fraught with age, but rejuvenated by each generation, were no higher than three or four stories, leaving the entire port under the glare of the two large hills that framed it. The local technology provided an ambient cadence, with the tick tock of six clock towers, the winding up of personal polished brass trinkets, and the backfire and chugging of many steam powered boats that trudged along the delta of the Kachuck River. It was like… music. Maybe these Alerian Elves and their ancestral Raiaeran brothers weren’t so different. As if they’d admit it.

The Dark Elves were a proud people, some might say to the point of hubris, but Vespasian would beg to differ as he walked along the busy docks of the river, sipping his beer and taking in the sights. Hubric pride lacked the joy seen in the olive dimples of an Alerian girl’s smile, the security she found in the large ashen arms of her father, and the care found in her mother’s bronze kiss. No. This wasn’t pride at all; just a genuine, but universally misunderstood confidence. As a Villeneuve, Vespasian loved no nation, understanding that this relationship between his family and the kingdom would only last a season, even if that season lasted a thousand years, but he sure as hell liked this nation. He especially liked the way they dressed, engineers and Elders wearing the tools of their trade around their necks and belts, nobles and Grafs wearing decorated longcoats, and even airship pilots and their crews flaunting their double breasted pea coats; all of this undone to cope with the subtropical heat.

Vespasian fit right in as a merchant, wearing a brown leather double breasted vest with matching pants atop a simple white tunic with oversized Alerian cuffs, except for one thing… He was a pale faced brown eyed Human, vulnerable to sunburn. That problem was about to be solved. Somewhere along this river, there was a three masted sloop called The International and… there it was just around the corner, between a Salvic longboat and a Coronian galleon. He climbed aboard, bypassed the many snares and booby traps, entered the ‘organized mess’ that was his personal cabin, and unearthed a pocket sized moleskin sketchbook from under a mound of clothes on the floor. He turned to the page on which his mother sketched the image of a Dark Elf, took one last gulp of his ale, and fell to sleep.

When he woke, he was that Dark Elf. He’d show Schynius, just like he had to show his family time and again until they gave in.
…He’d show him.